


like flame and molten gold

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Body Exploration, Coronation Sex, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Experimentation, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23928373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: The evening after Catherine's coronation.
Relationships: Catherine de Valois Queen of England/Henry V of England
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	like flame and molten gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheshireArcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshireArcher/gifts).



> Catherine de Valois was coronated on 23 February 1421, about eight months after her marriage to Henry V (there was no chance to coronate her earlier as they were both in France). Although there is a legend that Catherine interceded unsuccessfully for James I of Scotland (a political prisoner since the reign of Henry IV) to be released at her coronation feast, this probably did not happen as Henry V did not attend her coronation or its feast (there is no insult in this, it was simply tradition for a king to be absent from his wife's coronation).
> 
> Anyway, that's just to say that we need more coronation sex.

**23 February 1421**

Catherine sweeps into her rooms, stops and stands still. Her clothes glitter in the low light, the embroidery in silver and gold thread, the jewels caught in firelight. The crown sits heavy on her head and she thinks it has left a mark on her forever, a cold, hard ring binding her brow. She should be exhausted – her coronation and its feast have lasted long hours – but she feels instead a sense of triumph and exhilaration that insists that night will go on forever and ever.

She has her women undress her for the night, packing away her clothes and jewels. It makes her sad to see the lush silks and velvets with gleaming embroidery shut away in darkness, and to stand there in her shift, suddenly herself again and not a glimmering image of queenship.

Her ladies whisper that her husband is already in bed and waiting for her so they are quick to wash her and rub perfumed oil over her skin. It is a cool night, her flesh prickles and her nipples draw up tight. They uncoil her hair, set it in a long plait and then leave her.

Catherine takes a breath and walks to the bed. It doesn’t mean anything that he has come to her bed tonight. He makes a habit of sleeping with her but rarely does that mean they lay together as husband and wife. Guillemote, her nurse, says it shows his care for her, that he doesn’t _despoil_ her at every chance he gets but Catherine likes making love and wishes they did it more often.

She pulls back the hangings and looks at him. Him. Henry. Her husband, her king. His face is caught in the shadows, his features seem even sharper than usual and his scar, that ugly thing he cannot stand to have touched, is hidden. He smiles at her, brows raising.

‘I am your queen now,’ she says and feels her chest swell, her spine straighten.

Queens are bold and she is a queen. It is not just magnificent clothes that make her so but the fact of her life now. She has been anointed Queen of England and one day she will be Queen of France as well.

‘Yes,’ he says and stares at her, his dark eyes holding hers. ‘My queen.’

She kneels on the bed beside him. His hand reaches out and traces the high arch of her cheek upwards before settling, with eerie precision, to the place where she was anointed. He smiles at her and his finger drifts down her long nose, runs across her small lips.

‘And what does my queen want?’

She starts and stares at him, wondering if she is meant to be interceding for someone or something right now, asking a boon of her a husband in return for her new status. She thinks of the Scottish king, who spent the feast trying to charm her, and wonders if she is meant to plead his case now. But Henry smiles and sits up, cupping her cheek.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Nothing so serious. What do you want now, right now, just the two of us?’

‘A kiss?’

‘Just a kiss?’

‘To begin with.’

He smiles and leans in, lips brushing against hers. One hand cups her jaw, the other runs over the curve of her hip. She reaches out, taking firm hold of his shoulders, and refuses to let him tease her any longer by pressing their lips together and kissing him. His mouth parts and she lets her tongue touch his, letting herself drift forward to press her body against his. She feels acutely aware of the warmth and solidity of his flesh, his cock twitching against her thigh, and her own body, the heat building in her groin and how hard her nipples feel, pressed against his chest.

They part to breathe and she pushes him down onto the mattress, reaching to take his cock in her hand. It is a bold move and his dark eyes widen as he stares up at her, his cock slowly hardening in her hand.

‘I am your queen,’ she reminds him and grins at him.

‘You are indeed,’ he says, breathless.

His hips arch up into her touch and she likes this, having him on his back and at her mercy. She lets go of his cock, watches it bob, stiff and heavy, against his belly and then straddles him. His cock brushes against her buttocks and she hears him hiss out a breath, the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief as he throws his head back. She runs her hands over his neck and down to the dip between his collarbones.

She has rarely seen him like this, never dared to touch and explore his body like this. It isn’t as though he hasn’t been a gracious lover – it’s more that he’s _too_ gracious, too focused on her to give her a chance to make a study of his body. For a moment, she wishes the candles were closer, that she might be able to see his body and the colour of his flesh in clearer detail. But she likes this half-light, the familiar comforting shadows of night.

Her hands move over his chest, she touches her fingers to his nipples. They pebble beneath her touch and she pulls lightly at them. He shudders a little and she does it again, watching his reaction eagerly before her hands move to trace his arms, feeling skin wrapped around muscle, before sweeping down to his to surprisingly graceful and long fingers. She likes his fingers, likes to watch them when he plays the harp for her – they move so fast, with a grace she has never been able to master and she is a good musician – and likes them even more when they touch her.

She raises his hands to her mouth, kisses the palms and runs her tongue along the fingers, finding the calluses that have made his hands rough, nothing like hers. She lets his hands fall and his eyes are focused on her again, a flush across his cheeks. A king in wilful submission to his queen.

To her.

She is wet, her hips hitching against his belly, and she scoots backwards, hearing him hiss and herself moan as his cock slides between her thighs. She stops for a moment, rocking back and forth on the spot, feeling the hard width of his cock parting her labia. It’s good, it makes her eyes fall shut and her body mindless, a flush spreading across her pale skin as she ruts against him, but it isn’t enough.

With a deep breath to steel herself, she moves away and he groans, hands fisting in the sheet beneath him.

She touches his cock again, rubs her thumb against the wet head and closes her fist around it, pumping slowly. Henry’s hips jerk upwards, his flesh damp and slick with her arousal. His cock seems huge in her hand and she wonders how it is that it fits inside her so easily. Her hands dip down, take his scrotum in her hands, feels the weight of his balls. He hisses out a breath and she looks up at him, cocking her head to the side.

‘What?’ she says. ‘Is it bad?’

‘N – no,’ he says, breath stuttering.

‘Should I do it again?’

He breathes hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly and says yes in a way that makes it sound like a question and she takes this for a victory for he rarely, if ever, sounds uncertain. She touches him again, hears his breath whine, and then pauses, lowering to head to press her tongue against the head of his cock. It’s not exactly pleasant or unpleasant, he tastes like salt and something slightly bitter, so she does it again, pressing her tongue to the slit of his cock to lap away the fluid leaking from it.

He makes a sharp little groan, hands clenching in the sheets, and she moves down, running her tongue along the hard underside of his cock, down to his balls. She sits up, again, and wonders if what she has just done is considered obscene but, if it is, Henry doesn’t seem to mind his head pressed back against the pillow, his hair a dark halo around his head, his red, swollen lips open and tempting.

She kisses him. One of his arms goes up around her shoulders, pulls her close to him and she grins against his mouth, her lips parting. She feels her pulse thrumming through her entire body as if all her blood has turned to flame and molten gold. His tongue presses against her own and she reaches for his hand, squeezes it tight and draws it to where she needs his touch most, trying to swallow a whimper as his hand presses against her heated, wet flesh.

His eyelashes brush against her cheeks as he opens his eyes and then he pulls away, even as his long fingers touch her, circling her clitoris. Then he is upending her, putting her on her back and leaning over her.

‘Fair is fair,’ he says and kisses her.

No it isn’t, she wants to say but her breath is stolen from her. His mouth slides across her jaw, drops down her neck as his hand continues to massage her wet folds and the other squeezes her small breast, fingers gently tugging at the nipples. She gasps, unable to do anything more than stare upwards at the canopy. His back bends as he presses kisses to the hill of her breast, she whimpers as he touches his tongue to the tip of her nipple.

‘Please,’ she says instead.

He leaves her breasts, presses a kiss to her belly when she complains. He places his hands on her thighs and she parts them. Then she is crying out as he touches his tongue to her heated flesh, her hands flying out to grab at the back of his head, to hold him in place as he laps at her, his tongue delving inside her.

‘Please, _please_.’

His fingers push inside her, his tongue moves to tease her clitoris. Catherine feels her body tightening, her hips pushing up, her hands pressing down to hold Henry in place and she thinks, distantly, that isn’t fair at all. She’s about to come and Henry didn’t, earlier, she barely even touched him with her mouth compared to this—

She cries out, her thighs clamping around his head as her hips pump down on Henry’s fingers, riding them until her body turns lax and stupid, her breasts heaving as she gasps for air, eyes clamped shut.

She swallows, feeling his fingers withdraw from her. She knows that when she opens her eyes again, she will see him working his cock, slicking it with the evidence of her orgasm, and then he will move between her thighs and say, _Catherine, Catherine_ and she will look at him and nod, and he will fill her.

It isn’t what she wants.

Not tonight, not like that. She wants him inside her but she doesn’t want to be lying on her back, an object tenderly claimed. She forces her body up, sees his hand on his cock, shining with her fluids, and his dark eyes meet her.

‘You don’t—?’

She shoves him down on his back and he’s too stunned to resist, he falls like a tree and his eyes are staring at her as she straddles him. His mouth opens as she takes his cock, holds it against her entrance, and his eyes go wide as she pushes down, taking his cock inside her in one long, smooth movement. She cries out, eyes creasing, and hears his voice echo her.

‘I am your queen,’ she says.

His wife, coronated, his other half, the moon, and stars to his blinding sun. His hands hold her hips, draw her close, and she thinks for a moment that he will lift her up and down on his cock but he doesn’t. He holds her, supports her, and she realises that he is submitting, let her rule him.

So she braces her hands against his chest and begins to move, rising and falling on his cock. It takes her a few times to get the angle right but soon, when his hips thrust up and hers thrust down, his cock drags across the place inside her that makes everything go white as if it is touched by lightning.

She controls the speed, going slow at first to draw it out but her body is oversensitive and wanting. So she sacrifices grace for speed, her buttocks slapping against the sharp lines of his hips. Her fingers pull at his nipples and his hands begin to tease her, running over the place where her flesh grips his tight and then up to her clitoris until her blood is molten, her mouth open and crying out.

In revenge, she clenches down around his cock and hears him shout, his cock pulsing inside her. It’s enough to tip her over again, her body drawn up tight, like an archer’s bow, and then releasing like a flood breaking the river’s banks.

For a long time, all she hears and feels are their panting breaths and their frantic hearts beating against each other. She closes her eyes, rests her head against his chest and his arms go up to hold her close.

‘You are my queen,’ he says.


End file.
